


Distance

by BazinMousqueton



Series: The Body and the Battle [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Aramis/Porthos Don't Have Sex, Bath Houses, Bathing/Washing, Canon Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Established Relationship, M/M, Naked Cuddling, Porthos Is Beautiful, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Savoy, Spoilers through to 1x04, love and affection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 17:54:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7767535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BazinMousqueton/pseuds/BazinMousqueton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Athos gives Aramis his hat, Aramis can't take the opportunity, and Porthos knows what Aramis needs. In this case: bath cuddles and the chance to talk.</p><p>Or: Porthos doesn't let Aramis run away, they get naked and wet at a fancy bathhouse, and Aramis realises Porthos is the best. (Post-Savoy/Marsac.)</p><p>The fics in this series are chronological but standalone -- there's no need to read the earlier ones to enjoy this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distance

**Author's Note:**

> Set after 1x04 (The Good Soldier). 
> 
> You need to know that in my headcanon Porthos has a liaison with the Duchess of Savoy while Aramis is dealing with Marsac and Treville (which you can read about in explicit detail in "[Porthos's Duchess](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7726051)," should you be so inclined).

Aramis tramped across the churchyard, forsaking Marsac's newly-covered grave. Rain dripped from his hair and ran down his face and neck. A crow flew overhead, cawing. Aramis was distantly aware of being cold. He was soaked to his skin. He found it hard to care. The winter chill from Savoy had seeped through to his soul.

Athos lurked at the front of the church, leaning against a column, arms folded, hat tilted to shelter most of his face. Water sheeted off its brim.

"Treville?" Athos asked. He must have seen the Captain leave and chosen to wait for Aramis. Aramis felt a glimmer of warmth. 

"Treville is a good soldier," Aramis said, "and an honourable man." 

Athos nodded. He unfolded himself from the column and rested his hand -- so gently -- on Aramis's shoulder. Aramis pushed his sopping hair back with a gloved hand. 

"You're drenched," Athos said. 

He plucked off his hat, and placed it on Aramis's head, leaning close. Athos's face was inches from Aramis's. Aramis gazed into his friend's blue eyes, narrowed in concern. Athos didn't pull back. His lips parted.

_...Aramis remembered an interrupted moment in Treville's office. He'd believed Athos would kiss him..._

_...He remembered the moment in Treville's office when Treville had refused to answer their questions..._

_...He remembered the morning in Treville's office when Aramis had returned from Savoy. He closed his eyes to better picture Treville's expression. Grief, definitely, but was that guilt too? Should Aramis have realised what had happened? Could he have asked the right questions sooner -- soon enough to save Marsac?_

Aramis opened his eyes, gasping for breath, backing away from Athos, shaking his head. 

"I can't," Aramis said, scrubbing his hand over his face. "I'm sorry, my friend. I'm not..." 

Athos's expression shut down. Aramis turned and ran.

# # #

He hid at the Ville de Hambourg: a merchant tavern, providing familiar comforts for traders far from their homes. He lost himself in the smell of sausages and beer and the harsh sound of German, the warmth of the fire drying his clothes. The leather of his breeches tightened and stiffened as it baked. Water squelched in his boots when he moved.

He ordered a white beer from a blond serving woman. She wore her hair in thick plaits, curled around her head. She smiled when she served him. Her German-accented French held a severe attraction. He smiled back automatically, charmed her with his body language and a handful of words. She leaned into him. He imagined releasing her hair and feeling the waves of it flowing through his fingers. 

_...He remembered holding Marsac as he died, his gloved hands stroking his friend's curls..._

_...He remembered apologising, his hands pressing into Marsac's shoulders..._

_...He remembered shooting Marsac, his finger squeezing the pistol's trigger..._

The serving woman straightened, sensing his distance, and slipped away. He stared into the crackling fire and drank. 

"You're a hard man to find," Porthos said. Aramis startled. The candles on his table had burned low. The tavern had begun to empty.

"This is not a night when I want company," Aramis said.

"You might not want it, but you need it."

Aramis shot him an angry look. He softened when he saw the worry on Porthos's face. "Join me, then," he said, gesturing at an empty chair -- not gracious, but accepting. 

"Not what I had in mind," Porthos said, one corner of his mouth turning up in that irrepressible Porthos grin. Aramis's heart leapt. Perhaps this really was what he needed; perhaps Porthos could drive away the memories. 

He picked up the hat he'd placed on the table and settled it firmly on his head.

"Athos's hat!" Porthos said, punching Aramis's arm. "You sly devil. Did you...?"

Aramis gave him a wink as they pushed out of the tavern's doors, not ready to admit how badly he'd screwed up with Athos. The rain outside hadn't slowed. A carriage sped down the half-flooded road, deluging them. Porthos swore creatively, put an arm around Aramis's shoulders and guided him along past Saint-Sulpice. He didn't ask questions about Marsac or Treville. Aramis relaxed, a little. 

They turned into the bathhouse on Rue Ferou, usually well beyond their means. Aramis raised an eyebrow when they were led through to a private room. The door closed behind them with a quiet click. Basins and soap stood near the door. Steam filled the air from a bath big enough for three, scented with lavender oil. All four corners of the room held a brazier. An upholstered chaise longue sat next to the bath.

"One of your 'duchesses'?" Aramis asked, breathing in the perfumed air and basking in the warmth. They'd never been too proud to accept gifts when they bedded someone wealthy. 

Porthos chuckled. "Details later," he promised, unbuckling the first of his belts. "Out of those wet clothes first."

Aramis stripped down, tugging awkwardly as sodden fabric clung and struggling with creaking leather. Porthos -- somehow having made the same process look effortless -- gathered both piles of clothes, opened the door, and handed them out to an attendant. 

Aramis stretched and curled his toes into the slatted wooden floor, warm underfoot. Some of his chill lifted. Porthos prowled, beautifully naked, to a wash basin.

"Come here," he said.

Aramis obeyed. He let Porthos wash him. No... he _enjoyed_ Porthos washing him: the scratch of the cloth, the slide of soap, the heat of the water. The contrast between Porthos's gentle touch and the roughness of his hands. Porthos bent down and pressed his forehead to Aramis's, eyes closed. Aramis wrapped his arms around Porthos's wide back, breathed out and thawed a little further. 

Porthos held him, infinitely patient, until Aramis felt ready to stand alone. They kissed, a brief brush of lips, and Aramis padded to the chaise. He stretched himself out and watched Porthos wash. Porthos, smiling, made a performance of it: arching his back, pulling the washcloth across his body in long strokes, squeezing it to send rivulets of water running across his muscles and dripping onto the floor. 

"Have you heard what happened?" Aramis asked.

"I don't need to know."

"I killed Marsac. We'd been brothers, lovers, and I shot him dead."

Porthos closed the distance between them with two long strides and dropped to his knees. He took Aramis's hands. "We're soldiers. You did what you had to do."

_...Aramis remembered his words to Treville: "We're soldiers. We follow our orders, no matter where they lead, even to death..."_

_...He remembered waking up in the forest in Savoy, only him and Marsac alive; their dead friends enclosing them..._

_...He remembered Marsac walking away._

The soft touch of Porthos's fingers brushing his palms brought Aramis back to the bathhouse. His heart thumped erratically. 

"I'm sorry. I..." Aramis didn't know how to explain. "I just..."

Porthos kissed his hand. "I know. You go distant when you remember."

"I want to fight it."

"Fight it? It's not your enemy. It's your wound."

Aramis frowned as he considered this. He'd spent five years at war with his memories, failing to beat them. He'd wanted to forget, to move on. Should he have been trying to accept instead?

Porthos touched the long-healed cut on Aramis's forehead. "Our scars are what form us."

"When did you become so wise, my friend?"

Porthos ducked his head away from the praise. He stood, drawing Aramis with him, and stepped into the bath, humming contentedly. He helped Aramis into the water and sat down, leaning against the side, legs spread wide and arms stretched along the bath's rim, a picture of ease. Aramis's calves tingled and flushed red. He took a minute to adjust to the heat before settling himself between Porthos's thighs. He leaned back into his friend's strong chest and closed his eyes. 

"Tell me about your duchess," he said.

Porthos ran his right hand along Aramis's arm, deliberately allowing the sword-handle callus between his thumb and index finger to scrape Aramis's skin. 

"Silk stockings," Porthos said.

Aramis shivered deliciously. He know how much Porthos enjoyed ruining silk stockings. If only they didn't cost so much. "And crisp linen sheets?"

Porthos leaned down to whisper in his ear. "Up against a wall," he said. 

Aramis laughed. Porthos had been right. This was exactly what he needed. This, and to talk. 

"The King ordered Treville to betray us," he said. He felt Porthos's indrawn breath. Porthos folded Aramis in his arms. 

"You don't have to tell me."

"I want to, my love." 

Porthos murmured at the endearment and tightened his arms and legs around Aramis. The chill within Aramis receded another handsbreadth.

"Treville had no choice," Aramis said. He'd known it when Treville first spoke; understood it at Marsac's grave; and now, finally, empathised with it. Treville had let the Cardinal mislead him -- even knowing what the Cardinal was capable of -- and lived with the consequences of that error. "He behaved with honour. But the Cardinal!" Aramis's fists clenched. He forced himself to uncurl them before continuing. "Twenty Musketeers were killed to protect one of his spies."

"A spy?" Porthos asked, his voice quiet.

"The Duchess of Savoy, the most important spy in the principality." Aramis slapped the water, sloshing it over the rim of the bath. "My friends died to save her." 

Porthos froze. His body went rigid with tension. Aramis took a deep breath, trying to master his anger. He ran a hand through his hair. As his calm returned he realised Porthos hadn't relaxed. He turned his head to look at his friend. Porthos gazed across the room, withdrawn; lost in a memory.

 _So that's what it looks like,_ Aramis thought. _Distant._ He took his cue from how Porthos had always treated him: instead of interrupting Porthos's thoughts with questions he caressed his friend's cheek and waited. Porthos turned into his touch. 

"The Duchess..." Porthos said.

"Not the devoted wife she seems."

Porthos focused. He jerked his head away from Aramis's hand, his eyes wide. "Aramis, I..." He shook his head. "What have I done?"

Aramis pulled out of Porthos's embrace and turned to face him, sending a wave of bathwater splashing to the floor. He knelt up and gripped Porthos's face with both hands. Porthos refused to meet his gaze.

"Porthos. It's alright."

Porthos moaned. 

"You don't have to tell me," Aramis said. "My love."

Porthos's face contorted as if the endearment were a slap. He shook free of Aramis's hands and braced himself against the side of the bath. 

"I need to," he said. He swallowed. "The Duchess..." Aramis waited. "The Duchess who paid for this..." Porthos gestured at the bath, at the room, "...it was an actual Duchess this time." Aramis held his breath, suddenly uneasy. "It was the Duchess of Savoy."

Aramis recoiled. He scrabbled backwards until he hit the far side of the bath. He drew his knees up, panting.

"You fucked the Duchess of Savoy?"

Porthos nodded, then dropped his chin to his chest.

Aramis considered. He reached for the chill inside and found--

\--nothing but warmth and Porthos. He smiled. Porthos, lost in his own shame, didn't see.

"You fucked the Duchess of Savoy," Aramis said again, allowing amusement to creep into his voice, "up against a wall?"

Porthos's head snapped up. Aramis watched the realisation spread across his face.

"A cold prison wall," Porthos said, grinning.

"And destroyed her stockings?"

"Not to mention her composure."

"I hope she enjoyed it."

"She certainly seemed to."

Aramis laughed and slid back into Porthos's arms. He knew he'd never forget Savoy. He doubted the nightmares would leave him, or the flashbacks. Porthos was right: that night in Savoy was part of what had formed him. But it didn't have to define him. Aramis could choose what defined him, and he chose being worthy of Porthos. Worth Porthos's wisdom, his capacity for pleasure, his love. His honour in looking after his friends and telling difficult truths. The risks he took. The life he lived to the full.

Aramis pulled Porthos into a long, slow kiss, holding him tight and thinking only of him.


End file.
